


Elementary

by orphan_account



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Coming of Age, Fluff, Keith and Lance are BFFs since Kindergarten, M/M, Random OC's - Freeform, big bro shi-ro, ill keep adding tags as i go, keith likes lance, lance likes art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 12:19:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13501558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The smile that started it all.





	Elementary

Lance McClain’s clothes are too baggy. Which is a problem.

Because the cuffs of his ratty jeans scuff against the ground whenever he walks, his t-shirt hangs long past his narrow hips, His teeth are crooked in a cute way that will probably screw him over when he’s older. His faint freckles, flecked across his caramel baby-soft skin. His hair, soft looking despite being a complete and utter mess, with glitter glue smeared across the side as though he’d run a hand through his hair after playing in a puddle of unicorn vomit, confetti and liquid glue caught in the shaggy brown strands. Mr. Sketch markers, ink, and paint staining his grubby hands. A colorful wreck. A wonderful mess. A little boy with brown hair and tan skin and eyes buzzing with energy and a smile that looks like it's ready to burst open, showering everyone within twenty feet of him with it's brightness.

There is no denying that these are only a fraction of all the things that make Keith Kogane love him.

Keith and Lance are six years of age at the end of the all too long school day, and Lance has only just finished the craft they were supposed to finish before the "End of the Day" song. But the other children's parents are already picking up their rosy cheeked children, who laugh and begin to recount every agonizing detail about the game of tag they had that afternoon, and yet, Lance takes his time. Slowly and carefully arranging, and pasting, and whatever it is he’s doing to that poor piece of paper, until he finally goes over to the teacher at his big black desk and hands him his work. The teacher looks on at the piece of construction paper confusedly, brows furrowing as he takes his thick wire-rim glasses and perches them on the top of his head.

"And what's this?" Mr. Claghed asks, turning the paper on all sides to see the drawing properly, as though he doesn't understand. Keith, who watches from a few tables away, tenses. Hands trembling as he sees, if only for a moment, the obvious pride that radiates from Lance’s very being flicker. His breath hitching. _No._ How can he not see what it is? It's obvious! A wave of some sort of emotion washes over him. Sharp and inexplicably strong. Tightening his chest and gut, so painfully so, Keith is forced to resist the urge to march over, and yank Lance by the arm to take him away.

Where, however, he isn’t all too sure. Away from Mr. Claghed, probably. Away from the parents and other students who were suddenly talking far too loudly, and were coming too close to ask him where his parents were, whose breath was too warm, eyes were too prying, hands too heavy as they rested on his shoulder as they questioned him, too _there_ , really. He wished everyone would just go away. Obviously, taking Lance away would be impossible. But Keith at this pollen soft age, just barely forming his shell had already developed a certain taste for the impossible.

But for now Keith watches expectantly, as Lance twiddles his thumbs nervously, looking from his worn, muddy light up sketchers, to his drawing, all the way up in Mr. Claghed hands in nervous excitement. Though not as confident as before, still hopeful.

"It's the Things We Love project," Lance explains, shifting from one foot to the other. Keith, without being aware of it, nods along. Silently urging him to continue. He realizes he’s only a couple of tables away, but still, worlds away in the sense that he can't stand next to Lance. The teacher says nothing, face expressionless and almost unfeeling.

"Oh,” there is a pause. Lance gulps. Keith gulps. The world gulps. “well, what are you trying to show me?" Mr. Claghed asks, turning the paper for Lance to demonstrate what he is trying to convey exactly, in the glittery mishmash of every art supply they had that Lance had handed him. Lance frowns for a moment, and turns the paper the right way round, so the bright, rainbow colored crescent moon-like shape is facing the right way.

"It's a,” Lance takes a breath. Keith takes one as well. For good luck. “Well, it's a smile. I like to smile Mr. C," Lance says, pursing his lips, as he awaits his teacher’s reaction, desperately trying to gauge any sort of positive emotion. And yet- perhaps just there, there was something flashing in his eye? A flicker of some sort? Recognition? Keith daresto rub his eyes for a better look and attempts to read his teacher with the gaze of a hardened veteran. He manages that of a little boy. So yeah. Nothing.

“I want to be an artist when I’m older. Just like my sister,” Lance tries. Keith finds himself biting his already stubby nails, his entire form positively buzzing with anxious energy. Knees, normally elastic and stretchy in the bendy strength of youth, now quake and quiver like dry grass in the wind.

Waiting.

_Waiting._

**_Waiting._ **

_SAY SOMETHING,"_ Keith wants to scream, _"SAY SOMETHING ABOUT THE DRAWING_

"Hmm." The teacher finally hums, a long, agonizing note that hangs in the air uncomfortably. He stares down at the paper critically. He hands it back to Lance with a slight shake of his head after a moment, pushing his thick framed glasses farther up the bridge of his long, pointed nose.

Keith chokes out an audible gasp, and flinches heavily when he sees Mr. Claghed look over at him.

Suddenly, Keith is flashed with the image of himself marching up to Mr. Claghed, and kicking him in the shin before he can say anything, with his squinty eyes, and ugly brown shoes, and his humming that doesn't make sense, and all the other things that make Lance not-so-smiley.

In reality, Keith ducks his head, and hides behind a chair.

"Maybe it’s time we think of more, ah, realistic goals, Lance, " Mr. C says simply, with a vaguely apologetic smile, walking away to talk to one of the parents who had just come to pick up their daughter, leaving behind a six year old boy with a trembling lip and a bystander who doesnt know the first thing about glueing things back together.

And as Keith soon realizes what has transpired, he watches. He can’t breath. So he just watches. Keith watches, and does nothing, utterly horrified as Lance looks at the drawing with an unfeeling expression.

Lance’s face is stormy and unreadable. A feat very few six year old's are able to overcome with chubby cheeks and naturally bright faces. The expression looked wrong somehow, sitting there on his face. Like a single cloud on a clear, blue-sky-day.  
But before Keith can think about it for too long; there, across the room, without a moment's hesitation, the drawing Lance was ever so proud of, the drawing he had slaved over for a whole extra ten minutes more than all the other kids, Lance takes it and rips it in four jagged quarters and throws them onto the multi-colored carpet. He stomps on the pieces, one, two three, four times. One stomp for every piece. And there he stops.

Lance isn't one for tantrums. He isn't one for getting angry at all whatsoever. And besides the fact that the result itself of said trauma is predictably anticlimactic, Keith is still taken aback, for all the emotions throwing themselves at the walls of his body, attempting to break their way out. Only a slight hush of paper against carpet for all his efforts. So Lance just sort of stares at the pieces on the floor. Blankly. Waiting for something to happen. Keith looks around, to see if a grown up or anyone would come around and fix it. But no one does. No one even bothers to look in Lance’s direction. So, for once in his life, Keith walks over there to do something himself.

With new found sense of purpose, Keith picks up the pieces of paper from the carpet and delicately puts them in a pile, pressing them into his small chest to flatten the pieces out once more. These are precious things. More special than jewels, his older brother Shiro’s minecraft account, or even the rare Pokémon cards he has tucked away in the basement away from prying eyes. So he hugs them tight, and fast, and only dares to open his eyes to look at a surprised Lance when he feels Lance’s gaze burning holes into his t-shirt where the ripped drawing had now taken up residence.

"I love your smile." Keith murmurs to him, staring deep into Lance’s young eyes, in the best way he can with his baby face and innocent dark blue eyes that hold no fire or passion besides what he has felt this afternoon.

Keith wonders if Lance will notice he was talking more about the grin that was now taking over Lance’s face than the admittedly bad piece of art he was holding.

He wonders if Lance will be freaked out because although Keith had admired Lance from afar for this entire week since he first moved here, they weren't friends yet. No matter how desperate little Keith was to have Lance notice him.

He wonders if Lance will care.

"Thanks," Lance beams, any trace of sadness gone. "I'm Lance, what's your name?" Suddenly, Lance is holding out his hand, the tears that were welling up in his eyes previously, disappearing in a blink. Keith takes it without a thought, a surprised smile taking over his own face. He savors this moment, the overly excited shaking of his clammy palm in Lance’s. Warm and soft and lovely.

"Keith."

"Keith." Lance says to himself, trying out the name on his tongue, then giggling to himself like it's the funniest thing in the world.

"Okay, Keith, Wanna be friends?" Lance says, eyes wide and expectant and for a moment, worried, like Keith will walk away with a shake of his head, like Mr. Claghed had done just moments earlier. Keith is speechless, this sweet boy who is always talking during quiet time, and running as fast as he possibly can during recess, and eating like his life depends on it during lunch is asking him to be his friend. Keith who rarely speaks and finds it difficult to look at people in the eye.

"Yes." Keith says quickly, nodding so hard he's only slightly worried his head might go rolling off onto the floor and across the room. How embarrassing that would be!

Lance smiles wider at that, and Keith’s world explodes with the power of ten billion, trillion, zillion suns.

It is then, Keith Kogane decides, that he loves Lance McClain. He loves his too baggy clothes, and the smattering of freckles across his button nose, his crooked teeth and all the art gunk stuck in his hair, but most of all, that he loves Lance McClain’s smile. Lance should look stupid with his messy hair. He should look like a troublemaker with his ratty hand-me-downs. He should look anything but perfect. And yet he does.

He does.

So yes. He loves Lance. And Keith knows this better than anyone. Knows this better than he does his ABC’s. Knows it better than all 100 original Pokémon evolutions. Knows it better than Mr. Claghed ever will about art, or the sun about the daytime. But most of all, out of anything in this entire world, is the fact that he knows he'll do anything, absolutely anything, to make Lance smile at him like that again.

**Author's Note:**

> Lololololol i really dont have the time tobewriting this lolololololol


End file.
